


found myself an old solution

by Catja



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, People Who Fuck to Friends to Lovers, Porn With Plot, Pornstars
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-11
Updated: 2019-11-11
Packaged: 2021-01-26 00:17:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,417
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21365050
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Catja/pseuds/Catja
Summary: Clarke gets involved with Roan's weird porn company to piss her mother off. Bellamy just wants to make a quick buck.It works out surprisingly well for them.
Relationships: Bellamy Blake/Clarke Griffin
Comments: 20
Kudos: 186





	1. Bodyguard of Lies

**Author's Note:**

> This is unapologetically ridiculous. Sorry to everyone waiting on more of rare is this love. I had some RL issues that prevented me from writing. Using this to get back into the swing of things, and then that will be my main focus again.
> 
> Title from Florence and the Machine. Unbetaed, unedited. I know absolutely nothing about the porn industry and I don't care to do any research. 
> 
> Tropes used for the fic in general are modern AU, on-screen couple, found family, slow burn, and dancer Clarke.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bellamy and Clarke's first film together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a bodyguard au, I hope obviously.

Clarke got involved with Roan’s new porn company as a giant “fuck you” to her mother, basically. Her dad died for bullshit reasons, her mom could have stopped it, and she’s just supposed to go back to pre-med at an Ivy League in the fall and pretend everything’s okay? 

Fuck that.

She’s ranting about her entire bullshit life to Roan Caldwell, her mom’s frenemy-slash-coworker’s estranged son she’s met at a couple of hospital benefits before, and she’s obviously way drunker than she should be at her dad’s wake. At least Clarke tried to bring up the idea of a gap year to her mom, or at least a semester off, but all she’d gotten was lectures about not wanting to fall behind, and she’d probably just be wasting a year anyway. Honestly, Clarke would just leave, but most of what she got from her dad is locked up in a trust fund for the next six years, and the part that isn’t will only last her a few months at best. And it’s not like Clarke’s qualified for any jobs with a good enough salary for her lifestyle. 

“You’re over eighteen, right? I might have a solution,” Roan says, suddenly and surprisingly sober, given the volume of scotch he consumed, and, well. It’s not like Clarke has any other options.

So that’s how Clarke becomes Assgetta Productions’ first star. 

Besides, it’s a good deal. Roan’s using his late grandparent’s massive historical mansion for filming, because he’s into desecrating their furniture, so Clarke moves in to the in-law suite rent-free. She has to pay for her own wardrobe, which isn’t nothing, but not grooming thank _god_, and her total salary is barely over minimum wage, even with the extra from teaching a couple of dance classes each week at a local studio, but Roan’s also giving her shares of the company for each film she does. She’s just about breaking even, which is good enough to get her through waiting on her trust fund. She can get by.

Two months in, it’s the best decision Clarke ever made. Definitely better than her backup plan: hoping the skills from fifteen years of ballet classes would translate to stripping. Not to be that full of herself, but she’s _good_ at this. Her first film was with Roan since he couldn‘t afford anyone else yet, this cheesy student-tutor thing climaxing with a pegging scene, but since then she‘s had a string of different co-stars while Roan tries to find a leading man worthy of her. She‘s enjoying the process. 

“What about you?” Clarke asks the newest guy to audition after word-vomiting all over him while they’re waiting for Echo, Roan’s assistant who basically runs the company, to finish prepping the set. He’s definitely one of the hottest so far. One of the best things about Roan being pansexual is that he rejects the bullshit “no hot guys in het porn” trend. Monty, their scriptwriter who also edits everything is also bi. It’s a good group of people. “How did you get into porn?”

He shrugs, and Clarke can’t help but watch his firmly muscled shoulder. Objectification is par for the course on set, but she tries to keep it lowkey. He’s just _really_ nicely built, exactly her type for guys, broad and firm but not overly bulky, not too tall. Gorgeous eyes, all dark and soulful, and perfect hair. She hasn’t gotten a good look at his dick yet, since he’s still in costume, a perfectly tailored charcoal suit, a pair of convincing fake guns tucked away, but she knows Roan. He’ll have a nice dick.

“Needed the money, mostly. Gotta pay my sister’s way through college, send cash home to mom.”

Clarke quirks her brow at him, pulls her robe tighter around her. It’s cold, okay, and all she gets is a lacy nightgown and a satin robe. Roan wouldn’t even let her have slippers, and it’s November and he’s too cheap to heat the place yet. “You do know we’re not really making money yet, right?”

“No, but it won’t take long. I’ve done plenty of research. Most companies don’t prioritize paying the talent the way Roan does.”

“It helps that Roan doesn’t care about making a profit.”

“No?”

“This whole thing is a fuck you to his family.” She holds out her hand, and he takes it, bemused. “Chloe Green, by the way.” She’s glad Roan insisted she pick something normal for her porn name. 

“Nice. Redundant,” he says, releasing her hand a few seconds later than socially acceptable. Not that physical boundaries are hugely important around here. “Blake Belmont.” 

Clarke wonders if Monty yelled at him too. “First time using that, huh?” It’s not the worst name— _Roan Assgetta_ is still losing that contest, as far as Clarke’s concerned— but he grimaces anyway, giving himself away.

Blake finally cracks a smile. “That obvious? I’ll have to practice.”

Echo waves Clarke over to the bed, and she gives the guy a small smile before she goes. He really is way too attractive. He’s going to be _very_ popular. 

There’s not much plot, of course. More than in a lot of films, but they all know why they’re here. They’re filming out of order, this time, but Clarke read the script. All six pages of it, for an hour-long film. Tomorrow, they’ll do the opening montage, Clarke in a ballgown, floating around a party on Roan’s arm, the perfect society wife, filled with a bunch of extras off of Craigslist, while her costar trails behind her and lurks in corners as her bodyguard, sending lusty glances in her direction. There’s also a scene of Blake jacking off that they already filmed. Clarke was getting waxed then, or she absolutely would have sat in on filming. 

They already worked out the blocking, so there’s not much rehearsal to do. Unless something goes wrong, they won’t even do a second take, just hope that the three disgustingly expensive cameras, all operated by Monty from the bedroom next door, catch enough to edit together. 

Clarke waits for Echo to meet her eyes and give her the signal to go ahead. It’s just Echo for the moment; Roan’s outside with Blake, waiting for her to finish the first part of the scene.

She walks up to the vanity next to the bed, taking her time removing her earrings and necklace, the sapphire set her dad gave her when she turned sixteen. Her hair stays up in the tight chignon, and she’s wearing even more makeup than she normally would for this kind of event, with false lashes thick enough to make blinking uncomfortable and the longest-lasting lipstick known to man in a dark berry shade. Her nails are her own, at least, though grown out longer than she likes. But she’s not writing a half-dozen essays every week anymore, so she doesn’t mind.

The robe slips off her shoulders and pools on the floor behind her, and as Clarke stretches, she glances over at Echo to make sure she doesn’t have to redo the shot. After another nod, she climbs into the bed, conscious of how her body looks from every angle. 

Once she’s settled back against the pillows, Clarke lets her hands start to wander, down along her hips and thighs, tracing her stomach. It’s basically the way she likes to start off when she’s by herself, though she’s louder than she would be otherwise, and she’d never wear a nightgown like this. The lace feels horrific against her skin. After Echo gives her the signal, Clarke starts in on her breasts, cupping them in her hands, twisting her nipples in her fingertips.

The script doesn’t say much for this part, so Clarke just gets to do whatever feels good. The only thing she has to remember is to scream, loud as she can, as she comes. Easy enough.

After another minute or two touching herself through the nightgown, she pulls it up to her stomach, baring her cunt to the camera. She starts off with her fingers, one on her clit and two fingers inside, trying not to flinch when a camera moves closer. Once she’s a bit sweaty, thighs messy and chest flushed, she gets on her knees, finds the truly massive dildo with the suction cup base, and attaches it to the headboard. Backing up to fuck herself on it looks inelegant at best, but Roan likes that, the realistic moments, as long as they aren’t too frequent or awkward. Another camera rolls around to the side of the bed, zooming in on where she’s stretched open by the dark brown cock. 

Clarke squirts when she comes. She doesn’t have to fake the scream. 

The door bangs open as Blake rushes in, concern all over his face that shifts into calculation as he takes her in. “I heard you scream. What happened?” he says, voice lower and darker than earlier, and _wow_. He really is too good for them. 

“Nothing,” Clarke says, voice rough. She clears her throat. “You’re supposed to knock.”

“Not if you’re in danger.”

Clarke pulls off the dildo, whimpering at the loss, and sits up, straightening out her nightgown. She’s soaked through it, and a large section of the duvet, and really just wants a shower, but first, she needs to get fucked. “As you can see,” she says, prim as she can, “I am fine. You may go.”

He gives her a long look, eyes running over her body, and it warms her all the way through. “I don’t think so,” he says, taking a couple of steps toward the bed, shrugging his suit jacket off as he goes, carefully arranging the pair of guns on the vanity next to her jewelry as the camera whirls to get a closeup, probably his hands. Blake has such good hands, their audience will probably appreciate it. 

“Your husband is paying me to keep you safe. Out of harm’s way.” He grabs her ankles and drags her to the edge of the bed, runs his hands up to hook behind her knees, spread her legs apart so he can step between them. “I need to make sure you haven’t been-” 

His voice trails off while he watches her heaving chest. Clarke tries to pull away, but he doesn’t let her, of course. He’s holding her tightly enough to leave bruises. Clarke makes a mental note to talk to him after, tell him to be careful. It’s better not to mark each other up too badly. They never know what they might be filming tomorrow.

“Damaged,” he says, after a drawn-out moment. In one smooth motion, he grabs her nightgown at her throat and tears it apart. Echo put a slit in it to make ripping the fabric easier, but still.

Hot damn.

“You can’t,” Clarke says, channeling every ounce of superiority she inherited from her family. It’s a little hard to hold onto, when she’s got four people watching her, when she’s basically naked, but she manages well enough. “My husband—”

Blake undoes his pants, pulling his dick out.

Clarke was right. It’s _so_ nice, long and thick without being grotesque, neatly maintained. She licks her lips, even though she’s still supposed to be reluctant.

“Your husband is off fucking his secretary,” Blake says, slowly fisting himself. “And he’s paying me to be right here, with you.”

“You’re not going to get away with this, you—”

He slides right into her, easy as anything, and Clarke can’t finish the line, it’s so good. 

Roan better let her keep him.

Blake’s stamina is pretty good, too. He tosses her around like a rag doll, and all she can do is let him. When he gets her on her knees, fucks into her from behind, he finally gets his hands into her hair, loosens all the pins she put in earlier, combs out the tangles and _pulls_. 

The actual fucking, sometimes a couple of hours at a time, has never felt this good. Clarke’s never done so well with anyone else. 

Roan finally calls for a break four positions in, and all Clarke can do for a few minutes is lay there, panting, before she can manage to even sit up enough to chug the water bottle Echo brings her.

“Doing okay?” Blake asks, all concern. He’s going to have to learn to compartmentalize better if he wants to make it in the industry. “That wasn’t too much, was it? I can tone it down, or—”

“Don’t you dare. You’re doing great.” Clarke bends down to grab and slips it on. It’s not hiding much, of course, but it’s better than walking around nude like Roan does between scenes. 

They take about twenty minutes before they get back to it. Clarke settles back on the chaise across from the bed where they left off, carefully dropping the robe back on the floor, and it only takes a minute or two before Blake’s hard again and ready to join her.

They go back to the previous position, Blake lounging with Clarke bouncing on top of him, since Monty’s a stickler for continuity, but it’s not long before she’s back on her knees, back arched so the camera can still see her breasts, two of his fingers in her ass while he pounds into her. Anal’s not her favorite thing but it’s what Roan’s known for, so she’s used to it by this point. At least he’s not fucking her ass today. She needs to be able to trust him, first.

They cycle through a couple more positions before they end up back on the bed for the grand finale. When Blake finally comes, after three or four of Clarke’s own orgasm, they’re lying on their sides while he thrusts into her from behind. She’s got her top leg hooked over his, spread open for the camera, her hands tangled up in his hair while he rubs her clit, hoping to get one more out of her. Clarke doesn’t quite manage to come, but she doesn’t mind. It was still the best on-camera sex she’s ever had. 

Blake clearly minds, though, because he goes off script, after waiting just long enough for her to push his jizz out. He rolls onto his back, gives her ass a light tap, and tells her, “Get up here.”

She’s all loose and drained, barely has the energy to sit up, but she’s curious enough to obey. Before she’s even quite settled over his face, he’s already pulling her down, hands firm on her thighs, mouth greedy. Clarke has just enough presence of mind to glance across the room at Roan. 

He gives her the go-ahead, of course. Even if it doesn’t work for the plot, little of that as there is, Monty can probably figure out a way to make it work. 

So Clarke gets to relax and enjoy Blake’s mouth. He eats her out like he _loves_ it, like he can’t get enough, drinks up every drop. It’s so good Clarke decides on her own improvisation, after she comes down from the first orgasm. She lifts off him, bites her lip at the pained groan he lets out, and turns around. 

“Good girl,” Blake says, as soon as he realizes what she’s doing. It’s honestly Clarke’s favorite thing, taking a nice soft cock into her mouth and feeling it grow hard against her tongue, licking her own taste off of him. 

They’re enjoying themselves so much that Roan actually has to tell them to stop. “Alright, that’s enough,” he says, his voice that combination of bored and amused that only Roan Caldwell can manage. “We’re losing the light. Go ahead and come on her tits.”

Clarke gives it a few seconds so there’s a buffer, like Monty told her her first day shooting, then taps Blake’s thigh. He sucks hard at her thigh for a moment, and yeah, Clarke definitely needs to tell him to stop leaving marks on her, then shoves her onto her back. He straddles her stomach and starts jerking his cock, his other hand curled loosely around her throat. It’s only been around twenty minutes, but he does manage to finish again, though it’s weaker than it might have been, just a few spurts onto her chest and throat. 

Clarke’s almost too out of it to function while they get through the last bits of dialogue Monty wrote. It seems so silly to Clarke. No one’s going to be watching the last minute.

As soon as Roan calls out “Cut!” he collapses onto his back next to Clarke, panting. “How the fuck do people do this regularly?” he says. “That is way too fucking long to have sex. No matter how much we keep moving.”

Clarke throws her hand out and it lands on his chest. She gives him an affectionate pat. The only problem with constantly fucking strangers is how much Clarke likes cuddling after, and this isn’t really the time. Maybe if Roan signs him on she’ll be able to train him into it. “It’s only a couple times a week,” she says, consoling. “You did great, don’t worry.” She turns onto her side, hands tucked under her check so she won’t keep touching him. “Besides, you made that worse than it had to be. We could have been done a while ago, you didn’t have to keep going.”

Blake doesn’t look at her when he says, “I really did.”

There are enough bathrooms that neither of them has to wait to shower. By the time Clarke’s done, face scrubbed clean, damp hair braided over her shoulder, dressed in leggings and an old t-shirt of her dad’s, Blake’s gone for the day. 

She doesn’t examine her disappointment too closely. He was nice to talk to, better to fuck, and her new favorite person to look at, but that doesn’t have to mean anything

“I offered Blake the job,” Roan tells her over takeout that night. She’s not filming again for a few days, so for tonight, at least, Clarke can eat what she wants. “Ordinarily I would have checked with you first, but I assumed you wouldn’t mind.”

Clarke shrugs, aiming for casual but probably missing the mark. “He was my favorite so far.” She counts to five, and then ten when it doesn’t seem long enough. “What did he say?”

Roan doesn’t make her wait, at least. “He agreed. _Bodyguard of Lies_ will wrap tomorrow, and you’ll start the next one on Thursday, assuming Monty finishes the script.” In response to Clarke’s unimpressed look, Roan continues, “He’s getting more creative. Since he prefers more build-up, a more complex story, and relationship development, he assumes everyone else does.”__

_ _“Well, he’s not wrong. And there’s going to be a chopped up version on Pornhub ten minutes after it’s published for anyone who doesn’t.” She stabs a stubborn vegetable with her chopstick. “Might as well work on my acting skills along with, I don’t know, blowjobs.”_ _

_ _“Well, any time you want to practice,” Roan suggests with a leer._ _

_ _Clarke just throws a fortune cookie at him. “Nice try.”_ _


	2. How We Get To Peace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Monty's porn ideas just keep getting bigger and weirder.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, I don't know what happened either. This was supposed to be quick and fun and now there's just... all of this. 
> 
> New tropes this chapter are canon setting, war au, cuddling for warmth, a heated argument, hurt/comfort, and "love is weakness." Some of those are pretty loosely interpreted.

“This is ridiculous, Monty.”

“You have no appreciation of _art_, Blake! Or story, or world-building, or—”

“_You_ have no appreciation of our audience,” Clarke says, stopping the argument before it can get to be too much. “Or who’s paying your salary.”

“Come on. Roan’s paying my salary,” Monty points out, not unreasonably. “And he’s thrilled with my script! We’re pushing boundaries of what porn can be—”

“We _know_ what porn is,” Bellamy says. “We’re just here to make something hot that will help people get off. That’s it. There’s no reason to—”

Clarke gets up to refill her iced tea. They’re hanging out in the kitchen, going over the script for the newest film. Blake’s been with them for almost a month now, and they’ve done six films since the first one, each more complex than the last. Monty wasn’t satisfied with just a femme fatale spy and earnest war hero setup, he had to give them _personalities_ and _motivations_. 

The last one, Clarke’s first DP film bringing Roan back in to, obviously, fuck her ass, Monty spent a full twenty minutes setting up the student and teachers premise before any pants came off. He’d sent Echo to buy a desk from an actual high school and hung up a world map and a blackboard in the library. No one cares about authenticity like Monty does. Clarke even had to do a stupid voiceover over the masturbation scene where she fantasized about Mr. Caldwell, her gym teacher, and Mr. Belmont, the history teacher. Then there was a scene where she failed to do a pull up in Roan’s basement gym to make up for failing to run the mile, which he _actually made her attempt_, and then another where she failed a history test, and after that, a makeup class for gym where she demonstrated just how limber ballet made her. At least there was the scene Roan and Blake did together, to make all of the plot easier to get through. That was a fun afternoon to watch. Blake reacted more positively to rimming than she would have expected from how neutral he seemed about her fingering his ass in the light BDSM film they did. 

Anyway, there was no fucking reason a _prom night virginity loss by double penetration_ threesome scene needed that much setup. True, the setup is more fun to film than the sex but that didn’t make it _necessary_.

They’re still arguing when Clarke sits back down at the counter.

“It doesn’t make any sense,” Blake says, waving the script around like it will help make his point. 

And really, it almost does. It’s a full twenty-six pages, which is about the length of a typical half-hour sitcom episode script. Way too long for a porn script. Roan told her, when he decided to add writing to Monty’s job description, that he rarely had a script at all when he was working over at Eligius Films. But Roan’s decided that giving Monty free rein is the best way to fuck with his mother, and, well, there’s no arguing with that.

“It makes _perfect sense_,” Monty counters. “You and Chloe are the leaders of two factions at war. Chancellor Belmont is cold and logical, and they have technology. Commander Green— and don’t think I’ve forgiven you for using my name, Chloe— is a respected warrior, and has superior forces, but she can’t win against your tech. You’ve never met, just know each other by reputation. They realize they have a common enemy they can unite against, so the Chancellor goes for peace talks, and ends up injured and captured and imprisoned. The Commander disguises herself as a servant sent to take care of the Chancellor—”

“Yeah, _take care of_, we get it,” Clarke says. “That’s way too much story to get through before we start fucking.”

Blake nods. At least they’re on the same side here.

“There’s going to be a masturbation scene before that,” Monty says, dismissive. There’s _always_ a masturbation scene. They’re Roan’s favorite. It’s in their contracts. “And there _is_ some actual care-taking.”

At least they all know Roan’s kind of gross. He’s pretty upfront about it. 

“Sure, Chancellor Belmont needs some stress relief,” Blake says. “Still not what most of our audience is interested in. Now, if it was Chloe—”

“Only if we film it the day before,” Clarke says. “Otherwise I’ll only come, like, once with you.”

“See,” Monty says before Blake can say anything. “That’s what the audience really wants, just a ton of actual female orgasms. I can put whatever else in that I want as long as you get Chloe off.” 

“That doesn’t mean it’s not fucking stupid and way too complicated!”

Clarke looks over at Blake, surprised at his intensity. Even Monty’s taken aback.

“Sorry, it’s just— I don’t get it. I don’t see any point in putting this much effort into something no one cares about.”

Monty deflates. The fight’s gone out of them all at once. “I mean, why not put the effort in? It’s more fun for me to write awesome scripts, even if half of it is listing positions I picked at random.”

“I knew it,” Clarke mutters. He’s picked some real doozies. 

“We’re here, we’re doing this no matter what, we might as well have fun with it, right?”

Blake doesn’t look quite convinced, but he still says, “Might as well, yeah.”

Monty leaves pretty quickly after that, citing some research he has to do before starting the next script, and Clarke doesn’t really know how to fill the silence after he goes. It’s not like she and Blake are really friends. Probably they can’t even be friends, not when they spend most of their time together living in Monty’s weird fantasy worlds. It’s not like they can just start _hanging out._ She knows what his jizz tastes like, has seen every inch of his body, has shared every kind of physical intimacy, but they don’t know each other’s names.

Aside from kissing, of course. It’s in her contract that she won’t kiss her costars, her single non-negotiable from that night she and Roan got high and worked out the contract. Blake hasn’t said anything about it yet, and she hopes he doesn’t. She doesn’t quite know how to defend it, that kissing feels like giving herself away even though fucking doesn’t. 

Blake doesn’t say anything into the awkward silence for a couple of minutes either, just watches the bubbles pop in his sparkling water. But eventually, he looks up at Clarke. 

“I’m being stupid, right?”

Clarke smiles into her tea. Her instinct to tease him, to try to get him to smile, is dangerous. She really shouldn’t. “All of this is stupid.”

“I just—” He takes a long sip of water and grimaces. “I just don’t understand how we’re making any money. Who the fuck is even paying for this?”

“You know your paycheck doesn’t actually depend on that. Roan’s gonna pay you no matter what.”

“That can’t be right.”

“He’s _so rich_, Blake. And he wants to spend every dime of his shitty family’s shitty money in the way that’s going to piss them off the most. Playing along with what Monty wants to do is actually the best way to make sure you’ll continue getting paid.”

He considers for a second. “What kind of shitty money?”

Clarke counts off on her fingers. “Cotton and sugar, originally, so, you know, slavery, and then after the war, they moved north and got into oil. On his dad’s side, anyway. His mom’s new money but she’s honestly so much worse. Just, like, as a person. She got onto the board at the hospital my mom works at to promote her _social cleansing_ agenda.”

Blake doesn’t respond for long enough that Clarke actually stands up to go get ready for the dance class she’s teaching this afternoon. 

“Okay, yeah. I bet we could waste so much more money than we are right now.” He stands and stretches; Clarke definitely does not look at the thin strip of tan skin between his gray tee shirt and jeans. She’s seen him naked plenty of times before, and will again when they film tomorrow. It shouldn’t be exciting anymore.

“We’re doing our best,” Clarke says, focusing with great effort on the way her nail polish sparkles in the late afternoon sun. “I mean, we’re filming _on location_.”  
As much as the several acres of forest along the north side of the property counts as a separate filming location, anyway. It’s just an old hunting cabin that fell into disrepair sometime in the mid-nineties. It’s incredibly inconvenient. They’ll still have to drive back to the house for breaks, in the ridiculous golf cart Monty picked up at some estate sale since Roan hasn’t gotten around to hiring someone to get the cabin plumbing going again. 

Echo’s been back there for a couple of days now, getting it clean enough for Clarke and Blake to hang out naked. Clarke has only seen pictures so far, sent to the production company group chat, but even after everything Echo’s done, it looks pretty rough.

“Don’t remind me,” Blake groans. “This shoot is going to suck.”

“Well, there’s one nice thing about Monty’s script.” Clarke waits until she has Blake’s full attention before going on. “With all the setup, we’ll probably only have to spend a couple of hours actually fucking for this one.” Though it’s starting to get cold out, and that would be a pretty decent way of staying warm.

He chuckles. Clarke’s never heard him properly laugh, which is probably good for her sanity. “Let’s just hope you’ll be on your hands and knees for most of it. Smallest chance of horrific splinters, that way.”

And now it’s probably really time for Clarke to leave for dance class, but before she can go, Bellamy says, “Hey, listen. I’ve got a couple of hours to kill, I was thinking of grabbing dinner?”

He looks hopeful in a way that makes Clarke‘s heart pound, like it might mean more to him than just sharing a meal. They‘ve done that plenty of times over the last few weeks, though usually not alone. Blake hasn‘t spent this much time just hanging around the house before now.

Even if Clarke wasn’t actually busy she would still have to turn him down. She might be new to the industry, but it seems pretty obvious to her that getting involved with costars can only go horrifically wrong. It’s not like any other relationship has ever worked out for her. She dated a bit in high school, just casually, and she’d been cheated on, and then her girlfriend her second semester at college had dumped her when Clarke decided not to go back. It wasn’t the worst thing that happened to her over the summer, but it was definitely the worst thing. 

Add in dating a coworker, especially this kind of coworker, and there’s no way this could end well. Love is weakness for people like them.

Blake must see something change in her face, because his face falls just for a second before he smoothes it over.

“I've actually got something I need to get to,” Clarke says. She glances at the microwave clock. “In half an hour, so I should get going. Raincheck?” she offers, even though they both know it’s not going to happen.

“Sure.”

Clarke’s distracted all through the class. It’s a good thing she’s co-teaching this one with Gaia Palmer, and not just because modern lyrical dance is her weakest area. It doesn’t even make sense, because she made up her mind as soon as she realized she was actually _attracted_ to Blake that she would turn him down if he ever asked. A relationship couldn’t possibly be worth it.

Gaia teaches from the front of the studio, and Clarke wanders around correcting posture and offering suggestions and encouragement. She’s really not good at that part of teaching, but it’s easier to get away with her current lack of focus.

After, Clarke has to do a shift at the front desk, answering questions and accepting payments and chatting with whichever dancers feel like it. She’s talking to Octavia, one of the students there on scholarship, the kind of dancer who could have a real ballet career if she could just afford to keep herself in pointe shoes, about how much she actually owes since the lyric class is only partially covered, when fucking _Blake_ walks in the door.

“Bell!” Octavia says, a wild grin on her face. “Don’t you have a date tonight? I told you I didn’t need a ride.”

He goes red under his freckles. “Nah, didn’t work out. I’m all yours.”

Clarke’s never _not_ made eye contact with someone so aggressively before. But Octavia doesn’t let them get away with it, of course. 

“Miss Clarke,” she says, all practiced politeness, “this is my brother, Bellamy.”

It’s a good thing they’re actors, even if in the loosest possible sense. “Bellamy Blake,” Clarke says. It’s really not fair. She’s going to have to work so hard not to call him Bellamy when he’s fucking her tomorrow. “Clarke Griffin.” It feels like such a risk, to give him her real name, but she knows his now.

“Clarke,” he repeats, taking her hand. They don’t quite shake, just a quick squeeze. His hand is familiar against hers, warm and _huge_, and all Clarke can think is that Monty’s got a fisting scene written in for tomorrow, and that is not the kind of thing she’s supposed to be thinking about a casual acquaintance like _Bellamy Blake_ is supposed to be.

No matter how Chloe Green and Blake Belmont are together, Clarke Griffin and Bellamy Blake should never have met.

Clarke pulls away before Octavia notices anything weird. Probably. “Nice to meet you,” she says, a reminder, and Blake nods in response. 

“You too. Come on, O,” he says, and in a matter of seconds, they’re out the door. 

Clarke definitely does not watch them walk across the parking lot to Blake’s shitty red pickup. She can’t afford to.

The next day, neither of them mention it, which is almost worse for Clarke. If they could talk about it, acknowledge that they have too many awkward connections, affirm that they need to keep their actual lives separate from work, they could move on, but instead, it’s just awkward like it’s never been between them.

Clarke doesn’t have to be on set until after lunch, since Bell— since Blake is doing his solo stuff in the morning so he’ll have plenty of recovery time. She thought about hanging out to watch, help Echo with whatever might need to be done, but definitely not after last night.

Besides, she’ll be able to watch it online later.

She rereads the script before Echo gets back to the house to pick her up in that stupid golf cart. Roan had it painted metallic silver and decorated with the studio’s ridiculous logo, _Assgetta_ in an overdone script with a suggestive flourish running beneath the letters. It still doesn’t entirely make any sense, and Roan had to hire so many extras for this. Enough of them even have names to make this the most expensive film yet by a lot. 

Roan likes to film chronologically— Echo says because he’s too stupid to keep track otherwise— which is usually a logistical nightmare but is at least easier on the cast. 

Blake had about twenty minutes' worth of scenes with the extras playing his people, establishing their side of the conflict. They’re the underdogs, vastly outnumbered even if they do have superior weapons and technology, fighting a war on two different fronts, and when Blake and a couple of his underlings go for a parley with Clarke’s people, they’re ambushed by the third group, and only Blake is left alive. 

Clarke has some reservations about what kind of effects Monty’s been able to put together over the last week, but the senior film project he did in college was another weird science fiction thing, a fake documentary about a group of space colonists in cryosleep, and that looked pretty legit. So maybe he does kind of know what he’s doing.

Really, Monty’s too good for them. 

Clarke doesn’t show up until after Blake’s been taken in by her people, his many minor injuries providing them with an opportunity to catch him off guard and bring him in for questioning. He’s locked up in the more rustic of the cabin’s two bedrooms, and while he’s waiting for someone to come deal with him, he jacks off. As one does.

When Clarke’s thrown into the room by Echo, just offscreen, she’s dressed completely differently than she’s ever been before for a film. Or before, ever, really. It’s just a drab gray dress, loose and unappealing, with minimal makeup and her hair braided over one shoulder, feet bare. Of course, she’s not wearing anything under the dress, so her nipples are showing through, and if she gets between the lights and a camera the fabric is pretty see-through, but it’s definitely a different look for her.

She tries not to blush when Blake still rakes his eyes over her like he’s actually into what she’s wearing. He looks pretty appealing too. His clothing looks just off enough to be clearly a costume, dark cargo pants with a belt that Clarke hopes isn’t as complicated as it looks, plain gray under a canvas jacket. One sleeve is all torn up, stained with fake blood, and he’s got some cuts on his face and hands, strategically placed to bring out his features. He’s sitting on the bed, shoved into the corner to give the cameras room to move, back against the wall, legs stretched out in front of him and booted feet almost dangling off the bed.

“Are you okay?” he says, voice pitched a little lower than usual. “Did they hurt you?”

Clarke stands up and looks around the room. There isn’t much, of course, since it’s supposed to be a jail cell, but there’s a pitcher of water and a few clean rags. One camera is at the foot of the full-sized bed, the others mobile, one focused on each of them. 

“I’m fine,” she says, head bowed, looking shyly up at him through her lashes, before she goes to the bed. The script was a little vague at this point— Chloe tries to _take care of_ the chancellor— but the way Bellamy’s sitting makes it obvious. 

She tries to straddle him, hands resting on his shoulders, and he freezes. “What are you doing?”

“I’m here to take care of you,” Clarke says, like she can’t believe that Blake’s preventing her from following orders. “I’m supposed to—”

“No,” he says, firm. “I’m not interested in that.”

She lets him push her away, but palms his dick, already hard again after his scene earlier. “I think you are.”

He grabs her wrist, clenches his hand in a way that looks like he’s hurting her without actually doing it. “I said no.”

Clarke pulls away, widens her eyes and bites her lip. “But, they’re expecting me to— if I don’t then—”

He sighs. “No.”

Monty’s going to cut this into some kind of montage, edit it to make it look like time is actually passing, so Clarke doesn’t wait like the script says, just sits back next to him, legs pulled up to her chest and face pressed to her knees. She breathes deeply but quickly for a minute, tightens her shoulders, and waits for him to comfort her.

It doesn’t take as long as she thought it would. Bellamy starts off rubbing her back, then wraps an arm around her, and finally pulls her into his chest. “I won’t let them hurt you,” he says, after a couple of minutes. Clarke pulls back and gazes up into his eyes, all adoration. 

Echo, in the doorway as usual, doesn’t stop her to try to look more like she’s been crying, so she says her next line. “Promise?”

“I’ll take care of you, baby.”

Clarke bites her lip and leans back into him. 

He jerks away from her, grunting in pain. Not that Clarke actually bumped into any of the fake injuries like she was supposed to.

“You’re hurt, please, let me—”

He nods, and Clarke stands up, stretches, then grabs a rag and wets it, setting the rest on the bed so they’ll be within reach. She starts with his face, scrubbing gently at the blood. Blake keeps his hands on her hips to steady her while she kneels next to him, plays with the fabric a bit to tease the camera. It’s not a very long dress, but for the moment it’s covering everything important.

She doesn’t bother cleaning his arms like she would if they were real wounds, just helps him get the jacket off so she can bandage him up. They’re pretty shoddily tied. If her mom ever sees this, she’d be appalled at Clarke’s poor skills. 

“There,” she says, once the last rag is tied. “That should be good for now, but I don’t know if they’ll let me replace them, or—”

He cuts her off with a hand on her shoulder. “Thank you.”

Clarke nods, then says, as an offering, “Chloe.”

Blake smiles. “Bellamy.” It takes a few seconds of Clarke failing to recite her next line before he realizes what he said. “_Fuck._ Damn it.”

“It’s fine, just try again,” Echo says. 

He gets it right the second time. 

It really is so much build-up before they actually start fucking. Blake starts an argument over which of them should sleep in the bed, which feels absolutely ridiculous since it’s barely two in the afternoon and there’s plenty of light coming in. Clarke insists on sharing, and they lay down to sleep spooning.

Three minutes later, Clarke ‘wakes up,’ draped over him. He’s visibly hard, even through the thick denim, and Clarke slithers down, ass in the air, and gets his dick out so she can suck him off.

It takes a minute before he ‘wakes up’ and tries to stop her, but of course, it doesn’t work. 

The worst thing about having sex on camera is just how long the blowjobs have to last. Before Bellamy, Clarke had only blown high school boy with nonexistent stamina. Not only can Blake last as long as he wants, but they also need to get around double the footage for the length of film they want to fill.

But Clarke’s a professional now, and Blake certainly has no complaints about how she does. After that, there’s a long interrogation scene, broken up into a couple of sections so they can review the script. It starts off with Blake asking questions about the Commander’s forces so he can figure out how likely an alliance is against the evil third group and ends with Clarke begging him to tell her how she can make him feel good while he fingers her, dress hiked up over her boobs.

Then, he finally fucks her. They start off in missionary, then Clarke rides him, turning halfway through so he can start prepping her ass. He fucks her ass from behind while she kneels on the bed. Clarke’s very done after that, but Blake somehow isn’t even though he’s been going for much longer than she has, so he goes off-script again and eats her out for a while, kneeling on the floor while her legs hang off the side of the bed. Once Clarke’s regained her energy, and come two or three times under his mouth, they take a quick break to clean up before one last quick fuck, this time with Clarke up on the dresser. Monty wanted them against the wall, but they couldn’t hold the position for more than about thirty seconds.

Clarke hates the ending, but Monty wanted to leave room for a sequel, just in case Roan ever agrees to let him make one. Even for Assgetta that seems unlikely.

Roan strides in as soon as Bellamy’s come all over Clarke’s face and chest, dressed like some kind of feral warlord.

“Commander Green?” Bellamy asks, tucking his dick back into his pants and redoing his ridiculous belt. 

Clarke stands up, naked and trembling, and wipes the come off her face with the back of her hand. She slips her dress back on, accepts the robe Roan offers her, and then straps on a shoulder sheath for a deadly looking sword. Roan smears some black paint in a vertical stripe between her brows and then drapes an orange cape over her shoulder with a murmured, respectful, “Commander.”

She turns to Blake, gives him an imperious look. “Chancellor.”

He can’t quite respond, tries to stammer out an apology.

“You have your treaty.” 

He watches after her as she sweeps out of the room, Roan following behind. 

Roan’s the one who calls cut, though that’s hardly necessary since Monty already stopped the cameras as soon as Clarke was out of the room. But he enjoys his drama. 

By the time Clarke’s cleaned up, Bellamy’s left for the day. Just as well. He’ll be back in a couple of days for the next one, and maybe by then, they’ll have figured out how to interact with each other.

**Author's Note:**

> I have an outline for the rest of this but no promises on when it will actually be written. As always, comments begging for updates slow me down. [On tumblr here.](http://www.catja.tumblr.com)


End file.
